Blackbirds
by The Truth's Lie
Summary: Life had not treated Mrs. Hudson well. It made up for it, a thousand times over, by sending her Sherlock Holmes.


Sherlock rushed out of the room thirty minutes before the police had arrived, murmuring deductions under his breath and had given Mrs. Hudson instructions to let in someone named Lestrade if he came, but to otherwise lock up the flat. She called after him as usual, and of course the silly boy didn't hear her. The DI was lovely, though, a true gentleman. Nothing like his subordinates.

Rude, the whole lot of them, especially that horrid Anderson. His eyes are currently frozen to Sherlock's skull, as if trying to stare it down while the others loot through her boy's personal belongings. Her fingers itch to find that paddle buried with her other teaching equipment and show them exactly she was nominated Super Nanny of the year at her day-care job. "Figures, the fre-_he _would have a fake skull in his living room."

Martha smiles and plucks her off the mantle. "His name is Sherlock; it'd do you good to remember that. And whoever said this skull was fake? Its name is Lily, by the way."

Anderson looks ready to puke, wiping his hands vigorously in an attempt to rub away the feeling of bone. "Why?" Sgt. Donovan asks, looking more interested than disgusted. She has a good head on her shoulders if only she would start using it.

"You know, dearie, I have no idea." She strokes the cheekbones like it's a parrot perched on her hand and yells when an officer lets a cup smash to the ground. "Be careful! Those are Sherlock's things!"

Anderson snorts. "All the more reason-" Her eyes snap to his. Her Sherlock may be eccentric and perhaps a bit rude but he deserves to be respected in his own home.

"Listen here! I won't take any of that! If you have nothing nice to say, than you'll just have to leave. He's a good man." She huffs. "He helped me with my husband's court case. He's very clever, you know." Mrs. Hudson beams like a proud parent as they grudging nod in acknowledgement.

"Court case?" Lestrade asks. She nods.

"We met in Florida a long time ago. Back when he was still a teenager, I believe."

_Martha Hudson turns the rental car down the street, humming along with one of the songs on the radio. For the moment, she has forgotten about her husband's impending trial and focuses on the objects stored in her trunk. She's a bit frightened by the steer's head lamp but a part of her secretly revels in the small rebellion. As she begins to slow down for the yellow light, a blur of black smashes into her windshield. She swerves to the side. She would have screamed, but these years have toughened the born-to-be grandma up. Martha kills the engine and steps outside. What is splattered on the road makes her flinch. A man, nothing more than a boy actually, is sprawled, legs twisted over the black asphalt, arms splayed, over her hood. He is not bleeding much, thank Jesus, but most likely broken and in pain. She takes a step forward and covers her mouth in horror as he begins to move. Like a marionette with its strings cut, he drags himself up off the metal. Slowly, awkwardly, he begins to walk, bending and swaying. He turns his head until his neck cricks and stretches, blood trickling down his mouth. He stretches to his full height, shoulders slumped from pain. Her neck hurts just looking at him. _

_Designer clothing, once beautiful and fashionable hang off his rake-thin body, muddied and bloodied. "Are you okay?" She asks. "Is there anything I can do?" He mumbles something and if she didn't know any better she would have sworn it was "My criminal got away." But that can't be right, can it? He's probably hallucinating. (Or maybe, part of her brain, the danger sense that has sharpened with age, whispers, he may be a little unhinged. Why else would he run into the street like a madman if he wasn't mad himself?) The man stumbles over his feet and runs a hand through his hair. Resisting the urge to flee, Mrs. Hudson takes a step forward. His eyes turn to her, large and curious. She gives a sweet smile and holds up her hands innocently. "It's okay." She soothes. "I'm not going to hurt you." _

_He relaxes, not much but enough for her to gain some leverage. He looks a bit like Bambi, she muses, or, perhaps, Bambi's mother. "I understand that." He mumbles deliriously. "But I really have to go, or he'll escape the city limits."_

_Wrapping an arm around his waist, she tries to lead him away. He's light, her hands can almost reach around his stomach, but there is a wiry strength moulded into his bones that she doubted even the strongest wind could shake. "Nonsense. We have to get you to a hospital." She urges. _

_He shakes his head impatiently. "I really have catch up." He murmurs sleepily._

"_Please? Give a little old lady a bit of peace of mind? Please, sir, then I'll give you a ride wherever you need to go and explain if you get in trouble. I'm sure if they hear you've been hit with a car, they'll understand." His eyes, glazed and pale as ice, twist in their sockets to stare at her. She is stripped to the very bones by his curious gaze and offers her sweetest smile. He laughs breathlessly._

"_You, Madame, are a master of deception." _

"_I wouldn't go that far. Martha Hudson." She helps him limp towards the car, wincing at the dent in her hood. _

"_Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." _

_Months later, she will rest her head on her desk, fingers tangling in her hair from frustration. She had testified against her husband and she knew if he got off, nothing would stop him from bringing her down. She draws herself together and wipes her eyes, reaching for her aging computer. It is large and clunky, with much slower connection than those new fangled ones but it is hers and hers alone. She opens up a window and stares at the flickering monitor. The email is ready to be written, the addresses painstakingly typed in. She just has to muster up the courage to contact him._

_To; Sherlock Holmes._

_**Would he be surprised?**_

_From; Martha Hudson._

_**What would he think if not?**_

_Hello._

_**Would he remember her?**_

_Do you remember me? _

_**Would he even want to help?**_

_I believe you became very familiar with my hood a few months back. _

_**They had left on good enough terms**__._

_The thing is…_

_**But she HAD run him over with her car.**_

_-Sentence deleted-_

_Mr. Holmes..._

_**What should she do?**_

_-Sentence deleted-_

_**She's doomed if she doesn't and has nothing to lose from trying.**_

_I need your help._

_**What the hell? Jesus forgive her for cussing. She'll give it a go.**_

_*MESSAGE SENT*_

_Moments later, she gets her response. _

_From; Sherlock Holmes._

_To; Mrs. Hudson._

_Reply to your message sent at 9:24 PM._

_Ah, Mrs. Hudson. Lovely to hear from you again. I'm sorry it had to be in these conditions. I'll be over as soon as possible._

_SH_

_And that was that. Sherlock helped them put Harold to death, no strings attached just for a little old lady who almost killed him six months ago. _

Martha Hudson glares at the group gathered around her, puffing up the way a blowfish does to make itself look bigger and more intimidating. "So I will let you come into my home and I'll let you make a mess. But you will not disrespect my boys in my home. Because say what you will about my Sherlock like he's some sort of Hell-demon. He may have his quirks but that doesn't mean he's a bad man. Now, I have raised three children myself and over thirty indirectly. So don't any of you think you're too big and important for me to bend you over my knee." She points to the door. "Now, all of you lot. Out. Shoo." She rips the skull from Donovan's grip and holds it against jutting hip. "Leave."

The police file out, looking mildly disturbed and a bit chastised. What they never seem to understand is that she is Sherlock Holmes' landlady, his friend, if she can be so bold. God forbid Sherlock bloody Holmes associate with someone normal. There was a special brand of people that were simply built to deal and love him. They are small in numbers, but that doesn't matter much to them, or Sherlock either.

Only the most extraordinary people can get past the blunt honesty, look into wide, clear eyes and see affection shine back. Mrs. Hudson has learned to be strong and has earned Sherlock's respect, even if he'll never admit it.

She's never had children of her own. She's taught countless amounts of them in her career as a teacher then said goodbye to them every year as they moved along with their lives. She has lost her only leftover blood to suicide, cancer and car crashes. Her husband turned out to be a serial killer. To put it simply, Life had not treated Martha Amelia Hudson well.

It had made up for it a thousand times over, by sending her Sherlock Holmes.

He slips in through the window, soaked and grinning like a small boy. Her boy kisses her cheek and undoes his scarf. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. I brought home Angelo's, would you care for lasagna or angel hair pasta?"

She smiles at her boy and surprises him with a hug. He's sopping wet and still nothing but angles, just like when she met him, if a bit less empty. She kisses his freezing cheek and pats his matted hair. "Pasta. That sounds lovely, dear. I'll put on the tea and make us a cuppa to go along with it, hm? Then you can sit down and tell me about this new potential flatmate of yours."

Weeks later, John Henry Watson will arive on their doorstep; he will be broken, just like Sherlock, from a war that should have never been fought. When it rains, John's voice will ring out._ Get down, watch those landmines, reload the rifles_, and on and on until she feels like crying. Sherlock's will bleed through, gentle for once, mixed with violin notes. They will come down the stairs in the morning, eyes red from crying. She will pretend not to notice the bruise on her detective's face and they'll pretend she didn't hear everything.

Her family is small and dysfunctional, with half-broken boys and an aging mother but she loves them regardless. They're getting better, they just had to come home first.

There is magic carved into 221B, and she'd like to see anyone try to deny it.


End file.
